He enters the dig with resistance. She is the king's man, folding space, skirting around the empty. One confesses, a crime I can't collect. She is considerable in amount, is built up recovery by recovery. Hers is a settled standard. She has one projecting tusk and carries a new translation of the rule. More and more like a diktat.

On his first visit everything is delicious and they complement one another. Familiarize yourself with the choices, cut yourself away as background or relief. The screed is a pin text: it has taken the breath. I don't think my limbs are up to it any longer, but still there are the generous compensations of the sea.

What strikes me is the speed with which he does it. He intercepts. He knows what needs. Do not look up. The extra space means they never have to be in the same room together. The future occurs. He's crested; the sash bisecting his chest is held in place by a silverwhite emblem. Sweet-smelling grave clothes are the order of the day. The property's protected by a translucent screen.

Because you do not know where it will turn up, end (the pebble beach).

He has burst from the dental pulp. Full louder than did wile her story is briefly leaked. Well ought herself slay and berapt her life—skip down into the fire and choose.

Heavy earth spike rotation, electricity leaking from the core. Thin copper tracks link the components in a measured fault loop. Terminal artery with grazed clavicle, low noise. Apparent diversity factors may be applied. He's rewarded with a fresh name. First light tomorrow. I lay frontwards from my addiction.

He closes the note. That gives me way too much to respond to. This, he says, should make an interesting read. I ask for very little. I admit. My book's almost furnished, a very canny story. It has ken, but too little for my life to be adequate to the task. A pretty when youth, I come to infringe. I live regret.

As they speak he keeps his face pressed against the stones. Fill matte box to void. We round the story out by tacking on an ethic. I thought I would dwell in this room for ever, but now it seems I must quit. He is master of the occasional instant: trade, thoughts—the body nourished gradually. Regulus and coarse metal.

Such confluence. Write it out in full or it doesn't stand a chance. Yes constant.

A stain on the heart, russet spreading across coarse fibre. I can't guarantee first light. Primarily he is an occupation of the surface domain, collected later when the peace is forgiven.


You all know the rules, they're over a thousand years old. His centres part. I've been doing this for seven years now. He says it's the worst piano he's ever felt (that business with the ear). Further futility and other short proverbs: a man still young in age, a truce in name alone. Everybody present is executor. Letter writing becomes conditional—corresponding to both, I should read myself. It must brother affect, when memory examples.

Treat of these separately. He is valued so I rerun. Unhinged things made of sound drift up into the funnel.

You may gather up your equipment and leave. It'll be quicker if we do it his way, laughter in all the corners. The remaining space is an auction; it's nothing to do with the stars, it's to do with the wavelengths. The reader is required to supply words that have been deleted as a test; formed from closure and driven with the nail. You get the idea. Now annul.

It's said he has a fever for shopping. Check the horizon, the arbitrary routes taken over the past decade. I don't know whether I'll be able to find the long march. That's enough for a stiff reprimand, fleshing out the imperial poem, into whose building-ground the mob breaks, displacing his stones. We may have to quit before that. The life is a customary life, with steadfast cloyance. Nostalgia is always in there.


When I was a child he took us with him. We lived on an island. He revealed—the credal error of remaining. That rock was a life-pivot, you could see the blue from anywhere. Truly break.


They swing back through the village, people run out under the hooves. Breath takes hold. The guard who brought him in shuts the door and stands outside. The man waits at his bed and takes off his hat, as though in deference to one wounded. He shouts: Companion hence!

One confronts a value antithesis that seems irrefutable yet is held in poor binding. He knows about that pantomime business. Low winter sun, turning deasil, opposite to withershins. This section calls for comment on several levels, but I perceive what you're trying to do.

To begin with his treatment of the quotation: it's a real nerve distiller. I so desperately want to stop. She's rather instructive; if you're blinded you're in real trouble. And he had found himself a further null expanse, the desert across it and the ascent by swaying aerial. You might as well use up my remaindered sight.

A warm horizontal. Rising heat corrugating the stasis.


He has a facility. I tire; they can navigate. I don't like the tone of his message, as though I owe something. Subterrene nature comes in the guise of a bird, the celebrated theriomorph. He returns it carefully to its place on the shelf. Expression of a living unity, the preface, the More contribution.

Who understands this. Its human elements are too diverse to cohere except under pressure. He prevents the company from breaking apart. For a second I thought I was dead. I prefer the original, to remember for thing remembered. In the middle of his worn ground is a single weak link. The bolts rattle and give. Conceive of a terrain without edges. I am doing this, the total press of all possibilities, shrinking myself out of the picture. I thought of him just the other day: you are a break in time, hugging the pebble shoreline. At night, pick out stars transfixed at the rim of the land. You may not be aware but they're buried up to their necks along the line that pins down the foreshore. What will happen if I decide. He is laid out beneath marks of his own conjuring.

He has hitherto passed over to the pursuit of lack. One pair is used for covering their eyes. His mind turns round the detail distant in time, opportunities passed over. This could be called essential mediation, exposed to every blow once it no longer succeeds.


There's something discomfiting about my cell, but the compression of the light is glorious. Most of the strangers are like fine particles floating in the light, at an instant suddenly. Your voice comes from beneath the ground. Your speech whispers out of the dust. All cries drown one another out. His mind is going in eight different directions at once, the actual origin of which has not been precisely explained. See aorta text.

The earthenware lamp. Parousia.